


Glaring Back At The Sun

by Squash (JeSuisGourde)



Series: History Of Melancholia [15]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, First Meeting, Gen, Lots of Arguing, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21744493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisGourde/pseuds/Squash
Summary: Grantaire makes an impression at his first time attending a Les Amis de la ABC meeting. It feels good, arguing like this, flexing his brain muscles, even though Enjolras looks like he wants to behead him. He feels like apersonlike this.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: History Of Melancholia [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/40974
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	Glaring Back At The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place directly after the end of Chutes And Ladders.

Grantaire is still coughing from a badly-inhaled cigarette, trying his best to settle his lungs by chugging the cheap bottle of weird iced tea from the cafeteria, when a shadow falls across his table, shading his sad sandwich an even sadder grey and compelling him to swallow the tea down past the coughing.

“Are you Grantaire?” A pair of clear blue eyes with a wide grin and a black quiff stare down at him, attached to a lanky body clothed in skinny jeans and a sport jacket. Grantaire looks around, wondering if someone else might have his name here, blinks.

“Yes, how'd you know?”

The blue eyes and quiff cocks its head. “Jehan told me, and I quote, 'Look for the man with long curly hair and dark eyes and paint-stained clothes.' Honestly it was the paint that gave you away. Curly hair and sad eyes is a bit generic, even for Jehan.”

He coughs again, just a little. “Um. Okay.”

He still doesn't know what's going on. The smile on this boy is friendly and adorable and he seems like he's barely hanging back from slinging an arm around Grantaire's shoulder. Somehow he knows that Jehan knows him, but he's definitely not in that art history class. Grantaire tries to place his face, maybe a classmate from last year or something?

“You're in Jehan's art history class, he's the blonde one who sits next to you.”

So this guy is a friend of Jehan's. And Jehan talks about him to other people. Woah. “Yeah, I like him. We've talked a bit, he seems nice.”

“He is,” This overly enthusiastic man beams. He drags a chair over and puts one knee up on the seat, leaning his arms against the back to talk. “Anyway, he's talked about you a few times. Said you guys chat in class and walk back to the dorms together and stuff. He thinks you're really cool, so I said I wanted to meet this cool guy who doodles in class and talks to him about books I thought only he'd ever read.”

“Well, that's me. I'm Grantaire.”

“Nice to meet you! I'm Courfeyrac. I'm Jehan's boyfriend.”

“Oh, I'm not trying to—”

Courfeyrac laughs, waving his hands apologetically. “Oh my god, no, I didn't mean it that way! I'm not, like, jealous or whatever. I just wanted to meet you because you sounded like a good dude. Uh, and anyway, you should come with Jehan and me to our little political meeting thing. Jehan thinks you'll like it.”

“Yeah, he told me that like two weeks ago. I've been busy,” Grantaire shrugs, as though lying in bed listening to music, staring at the ceiling and then doing homework at the last possible minute counts as 'busy'. “But I'm free now. What's it called again? Les Amis something. When's the next meeting?”

“Les Amis de la ABC. And it's tomorrow, six o'clock in the Musain. We meet on the upper floor because it's a whole lot quieter.” Courfeyrac gets off the chair to lean over and adjust the cuffs of his jeans. The back of his jacket sports a stylized portrait of a woman's face, the bottom of her jaw obscured by the dark curve of a shoulder. He speaks with his head at his knees, cocking an eye up Grantaire's way. “Anyway, what's your major? I think Jehan said you were doing, like, art?”

“Yeah, art. Might tack on a literature minor or something if I feel like making the effort, but I'm not sure yet. What's yours?”

“Poli sci, for pre-law.” Courfeyrac straightens, gesturing behind him like he's referencing some group not too far away. “A bunch of the people in our little entourage are pre-law. Not in the business major asshole way, though. Like, more about social justice and stuff. I mean, there's also Joly, who's pre-med, and Jehan is doing literature, stuff like that. So, you know, we're not all bad.”

“Oh. Okay.” It's not like he has much going for him in the making-friends department. If he can tack on to Jehan's little group, that might be good enough. “Well, Jehan is like my only friend here at the moment, so I may as well trust his judgement or whatever. By the way, your jacket is fucking cool. Patrick Nagel's designs are iconic.”

Courfeyrac's expression brightens further as he twists around to peer at his own back. “Hey, thanks! It's from Huf. Which, I know, makes me bougie and shitty, but fashion is fashion and I think I deserve to treat myself once in a while.”

Grantaire shrugs, pulling a face. “Well, I'm not judging you.”

“S'all good if you did. Anyway, I gotta go, but see you at the Musain?”

“Sure. Um. I'll be there.”

Courfeyrac's grin gets bigger, as if that were even possible. “Great! See you later!”

“Later.”

Courfeyrac gives a jaunty wave and strides away at a stupidly fast pace that Grantaire is beginning to understand is just normal.

Back in his room, he finds that Courfeyrac has already friend-requested him on facebook. He accepts the request and then shoves his laptop away to try and get some reading done for class.  
  


* * *

  
Thursday morning he wakes as if from the dead, his phone blaring his third alarm just inches from his face. He turns it off and rolls out of bed, pulling on the barest semblance of a presentable outfit just in time to stumble from his dorm room to his math class on the other side of campus. He puts his head down on his desk and zones out for most of it. Maybe he'll ask someone for notes tomorrow.

Every other class is fine. Boring, but fine, and it isn't until halfway through his drawing class that he remembers he promised to go to the meeting at the Musain tonight.

He grabs dinner on the way back from class and eats it sitting cross-legged in bed, watching youtube videos and laughing. Immersing himself in stupid, mindless media is a good distraction from the constant mild itch to drink whenever he's bored. Distracting himself with funny shit works.

When it's almost time to leave, he spends a good ten minutes standing in front of his dresser, trying to think about looking nice, looking like a regular person and not someone who spends ninety-five percent of his time in his pajamas. He picks out a pair of black jeans that aren't quite as paint-splattered and a t-shirt with a print of Andy Warhol's flowers on it that Charlotte had gotten him for Christmas a few years back. Then he stares at himself in the mirror and wonders what possessed him to agree to leaving his room.

He considers braiding his hair, or taking the time to detangle it, or something that might make him look all right and maybe give a good impression. But that just takes so much effort and he can't bring himself to care enough. In the end, he twists his hair into a horribly messy bun that's already falling out by the time he leaves the house, and decides to be okay with looking like a mess. At least his appearance is an honest one.

His mood brightens as he walks to the cafe. His chest feels light in the early-fall air and it's nice to walk and listen to music, smoking and staring up at the sky knowing he's going somewhere potentially friendly. At least somewhere that contains Jehan, who is a friend, he thinks, and Courfeyrac, who seems like someone who's your friend whether you want him to be or not. But he likes them both, so hopefully he'll like the rest of their little group.

This building is fucking confusing, is Grantaire most prominent thought as he takes his first slightly disorienting steps into the Cafe Musain. Despite the ground floor windows proudly displaying its name and the tables and chairs visible from outside, as well as a patio on the side, patrons have to walk down a small flight of concrete steps and through a door painted robin's-egg blue in order to get to the main part of the cafe on the basement floor. The basement level of the cafe is mostly taken up by the counter where baristas bustle past each other like a weird dance, and a chaotic mass of chairs and couches that take up most of the floor space. The din of chatter and coffee machines is loud but comforting, like a messy but familiar house.

“Why's it like that?” Grantaire asks the barista as he orders a cup black coffee.

She shrugs, glancing at the door. “Landlord wanted to make it interesting? I dunno, but it confuses everybody and I think that's kind of why they come back. You here for those students? Les Amis Whatever?”

“Uh, yeah. How could you tell?”

“You have that look about you. They're always here. At least they tip good and clean up after themselves,” She jerks her head toward a thin stairwell made of dark wood, stretching steeply up into some upper place Grantaire can't see from here. The walls of the stairs are hung with pictures and lit with little orange lights. “They hang out upstairs.”

The downstairs area of the Musain is crowded with people and noisy with chatter and the roar of coffee machines and the clatter of dishes. Upstairs, it's quieter, and there's fewer people, with beanbags and couches scattered at random through the regular tables and chairs. Various students are scattered on these seats; some faces Grantaire kind of recognizes, others not at all. A sliding glass door on one wall leads out to a patio, and he can see someone outside talking on their phone, facing away from the door. He catches sight of Jehan waving at him from across the room, Courfeyrac beside him.

“Hey,” Jehan grins as he approaches and sits in the chair nearest to their little loveseat arrangement. “You made it!”

“Figured, why not? And Courfeyrac found me in the dining hall, kind of convinced me.”

“I knew he would. Courf, Enjolras, and Combeferre have kind of all been the ones finding people and convincing them to come. Oh! I should probably, like, introduce you to people or at least tell you their names. Here, c'mere.”

The next thing he knows, Grantaire is being tugged by the hand through the room, winding between tables and sofas.

“This is Bossuet, and this is Joly, his boyfriend.” Jehan announces, gesture to the two sat on a couch in front of him. “Guys, this is Grantaire, he's new to Les Amis.”

“I appreciate the pun, by the way. I forgot to tell Courfeyrac that. ABC, abaisse. Smart.”

“Courf and Bossuet came up with it,” Joly replies. “We can all appreciate a good pun.”

Joly is small, with floppy brown hair and big silver glasses and a smile that grows friendlier as his eyebrows slide farther up his forehead. He's got his feet up on the couch, legs stretched over Bossuet's lap. Bossuet looks vaguely familiar, his hair shaved away to nothing, exposing a dark, bald pate. His grin is also quick, and suddenly Grantaire realizes where he remembers this new person from.

“You were in my biology class last year! I'm sorry about the formaldehyde thing, that must've sucked.”

“I told you everyone remembered it,” Bossuet digs his knuckles playfully against Joly's knee, then shrugs up at Grantaire, laughing. “Yeah, it's fine though. Formaldehyde in the eye from a dead cat isn't the worst thing that's happened to me. I'm accident prone, it's something I've come to accept.”

“Your group still got the highest grade in the class, though, right? The professor was all over you guys about having the most precise dissection. Didn't he tell you that you should go into the sciences?”

“Yes, the crazy bastard. I told him that would probably kill me. Thank this one,” he points at Joly. “He's pre-med, so he watches autopsy videos for fun. I learned by watching over his shoulder. It's easy! I'm kidding, he taught me on a roast chicken one night when we were bored.”

“Damn, that's fucking cool. I'm amazed by anyone with the dedication to do pre-med, y'know. Don't they make O-Chem at like six in the morning to weed out the people who aren't strong enough?”

“Yeah,” Joly winces. “Five people dropped in the second week of my class.”

“Wild. I couldn't do it.” Grantaire shakes his head, genuinely impressed. “Art is like the easiest major and even that has me dragging ass if I have to get out of bed before nine-thirty.”

“How did you find the group, by the way?” Joly asks. “Aside from me and Jehan, pretty much everyone else here knows each other from pre-law and poli sci classes. Art student is a new genre addition to the team.”

“Oh, uh, Jehan and I sit next to each other in art history. He told me about this group. Courfeyrac cornered me in the dining hall yesterday and convinced me to come. I still don't really know what I'm getting myself into.”

“Courfeyrac, you didn't even tell him what we're all about?” Bossuet leans backwards over the couch to call out, pulling an exaggerated frown. “Enjolras would be so disappointed in you.”

A table and armchair over, Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, head jerking towards the patio.

“ _Enjolras_ would take it upon himself to go far more in depth than is necessary and explain every little detail, because he really wants people to come but he doesn't get that curiosity sometimes helps.” Courfeyrac winks at Grantaire, who feels like they're talking in code or something.

“Fair enough. I hope Courfeyrac or Jehan at least told you this was a social justice group? Good. Politics scares some people off.” He gestures to the room at large, a movement that makes it seem like there are far more than ten or so random students involved. “We meet here and talk about what we can do to encourage social change. So, we like discuss current events and current social issues and stuff. And we try to come up with some of the things we can do as students to encourage awareness of problems in the wider student population, and maybe even outside of the university.”

“I want to try and help make a difference now, even before I graduate,” Joly chimes in eagerly, alert with a hopeful energy Grantaire can only wish he had. “So when Bossuet joined the group, so did I. We spend a lot of meetings just talking through everything, figuring out what's best to focus on, y'know? But we've done a few protests and some on-campus campaigns to call senators and stuff like that.”

“Huh,” he looks around the room at the students lounging and chatting, looking enthusiastic and bright but nothing like a group of dedicated activists or student revolutionaries.

“I know the group seems kind of small,” Bossuet shrugs, nodding at the little gathering in their corner of the room. “But we're kind of just the main core, I guess? We come every week to, y'know, have discussions and hash out what's most important and stuff. More people come when we're actually getting closer to protests and other events.”

“So do you guys, like, just do protests and stuff?”

“So far that's pretty much all we've done, plus those senator phoning campaigns. I think Enjolras mentioned wanting to do something with the queer alliance club later. And we've been discussing doing stuff with other clubs, maybe. Maybe something with the Freedom Education Project.” He gestures to Grantaire's left. “I know Combeferre has some ideas.”

When he looks, there's an empty table not far from them that's scattered with papers. From here he can see flyers for other clubs, and scribbled notes, and printouts with lists of names and numbers and addresses that he guesses is probably information for that calling campaign Joly mentioned. Two chairs are pushed haphazardly away from the table, like whoever was sitting there left for just a moment.

Grantaire knows only a little bit about activism, and mostly from Charlotte. Aside from the self-appointed good samaritans that used try and convert him instead of giving him change, he's mostly learned things from his own research at home and the one social justice class Charlotte took as an extra credit one year.

And it's nice that these students are so eager to help, he's not begrudging them that. Of course he isn't. Eagerness can get shit done. But he remembers conversations he used to have on the sidewalk, a plastic cup in front of him and a cardboard sign propped against his legs, a carbon copy of the man on his left and the women leaning against a tree across from him. He remembers their hows and whys, their can'ts and couldn'ts and the way even the eager faces looked away from them where they all sat cold and hungry and tired on the street.

It's not about the eagerness, he thinks, it's what you do with it. It's how you start from the bottom up instead of the middle. You plunge into the deep end using what you know to keep you afloat instead of starting at waist-height and swimming to the shallows. These guys are excited but they're just begging for attention for people above them instead of giving attention to the people below.

Still, at least they're _doing_ something, and he feels like he might stick around just to see how that goes.

“Bahorel is trying to get your attention,” Joly snorts, gesturing behind them, interrupting Grantaire's train of thought.

Even sitting down, Grantaire can tell Bahorel is huge. He's waving big, solid hands wildly, goofily balling up bits of paper napkin and throwing them in their direction. The pieces don't reach anywhere near them, so he returns to flailing, mouth and eyes wide open.

Jehan gives him a little finger wave. “All right, let's go see what the beast wants. Bye, guys.”

“Nice to meet you,” Grantaire intones, “I'm sure we'll talk again.”

“Good to meet you, too,” Joly grins as Bossuet nods in agreement.

Grantaire's hand has returned to its place in Jehan's and he follows obediently along, still looking around at the room, trying to get his bearings on this whirlwind of new faces and places.

Jehan gestures towards the door to the patio, where two people are having some sort of intense conversation. “That's Enjolras and that's Combeferre. I'd introduce you, but I think they're deep in planning mode, and it's hard to get them to care about anything else when they're like that, so we'll save that till later.”

Combeferre looks vaguely familiar, though Grantaire can't quite place if he's just a face he's seen around campus or if he was in one of his classes last year. Black hair almost as long as his own and thin silver glasses frame a gentle but serious expression and make him look more like a librarian than a lawyer.

Enjolras is, frankly, fucking beautiful. Blonde cherubic curls that would easily fit a Roman sculpture frame a face with high cheekbones and a cupid's-bow mouth and eyes so vividly blue Grantaire can feel their power from here. Besides the glory of his face, Enjolras' shoulders are straight, his stance confident, and he gestures to Combeferre with thin, graceful hands, a surety and charisma emanating from him almost effortlessly. It's no wonder people come to this group. A man like that has fucking power. A man like that is practically a god. Even if he didn't care about their causes, even if he hated their causes, Grantaire might have come just to stare at Enjolras. He thinks briefly about the sculpture class he's going to have to take next year.

“You're staring,” Jehan grins at him.

Grantaire whips his head around so fast he's surprised he doesn't break his own neck out of sheer embarrassment. “Um.”

“I think that's kind of the usual reaction to Enjolras. Pretty sure I spent my first Les Amis meeting writing a poem about him instead of listening.” He shrugs, like it's normal to have a friend so ethereally beautiful. “So. I don't blame you.”

“You're doing better than me,” Bahorel mock-pouts when they get over to him. “Those two I brought the other week never showed up again. At this point, you and Courf are winning!”

“Grantaire, this is Bahorel.” Jehan grins at Grantaire and rolls his eyes in Bahorel's direction. “The only way we can get him to help us find new members is if we turn it into a race.”

“Sounds like good incentive to me. Hi, how's it going?” Grantaire gives a little wave, still feeling awkward but much more welcome with every introduction.

“Great, minus the fact that Courf and Jehan are ahead of me by at least one now. You're not another poli sci major, are you?”

“No, art.” He holds up his hands to reveal the ink staining the creases between his fingers. “You?”

“Poli sci, also. Unfortunately. Glad you're not one of us, though. I think it would've ended up a too many cooks in the kitchen situ. It's bad enough already.”

“What, too many conflicting opinions?”

“No, we all believe in the same goals and values. It's just that everyone has different ideas of how to work towards them. Lots of lists and a little arguing and we usually work it out. Enjolras and Combeferre are the real masterminds, though. They take our ideas and turn them into action. It's a big job. I'm not anywhere near dedicated enough for that. I barely get to all my classes every day. I'd rather be at the gym. Or taking a walk somewhere. Anything but the damn classroom, I say.”

“I feel you,” Grantaire grins. “I don't make it to most of my classes, either. Responsibility is hard.”

“Seriously, man! And then you have these freaks like Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac who are getting great grades and they're planning events and running this group on top of it, not to mention the debates Enjolras and Combeferre probably get into on their own time at Combeferre's place,” He laughs fondly, the sound a hearty boom. “Overachieving bastards.”

“You box?” Grantaire points to the red gloves strapped to the outside of a beat-up brown backpack at Bahorel's feet.

“Yeah, man. Why, do you?”

“No, but I've always wanted to try. Well, at least since a few years ago.” He gestures vaguely behind him, toward the past, toward wet nights on the city sidewalks and drunken despair-fueled rage. “Got into a couple of fights, long story, but I was just swinging blindly. It'd be cool to learn something for real.”

“You could come with me one of these days. I'm allowed to bring one guest with me to one session per month.”

Excitement blooms against Grantaire's stomach. “That sounds really cool. Thanks.”

“No problem, man.” He holds his phone up, waggling it with a grin. “Here, I'll find you on Facebook and send you a message next time I'm doing a longer session. Oh, hey, 'sup.”

Another, similarly beat-up backpack skids across the floor and comes to rest against Bahorel's right shoe, followed by a red-haired guy who drops down onto the arm of Bahorel's chair.

“Wanna move your arm, bro? I'm trying to sit here.” There's a grin at the edges of the ginger guy's mouth.

Bahorel's answering smile is like an affectionate shark. “Oh, really? Well, I could be nice and move it for you. Or you could move it yourself.”

“You're going to be nice,” the man says, shifting until he's sitting directly on Bahorel's wrist. Bahorel is nice, and removes his arm. “That wasn't so hard, now, was it, asshole.”

“Anything for you.”

“Oh, you made it,” A clear, almost musical voice rings out across the room. Grantaire turns to see Enjolras nodding at Feuilly with a smile. “Now we can start.”

“C'mon, we'll sit here,” Jehan beckons him to a table next to Bahorel's armchair.

“So,” Enjolras starts as the room quiets down, “I know it's only the third week of classes, but we're planning to think larger and more long-term this year, like I said the other week. Combeferre and I were thinking of getting started on planning our first big event of the year. So, we were thinking of doing something to raise awareness of and protest the school-to-prison pipeline that exists in our city specifically, and as a systemic problem in general. Other suggestions are welcome, of course, for future events. Bossuet suggested something for Transgender Day Of Rememberance, and Bahorel suggested an event about the abuse and abandonment of Native people and their communities.”

“These are only a few suggestions,” Combeferre cuts in, “We'll pass a sheet around at the end of today so anyone can add suggestions, and next week we'll do a vote on them. Anything we don't get to this semester, we'll start with next semester.”

“Right. Now, as it stands, we will be able to get space in the upper level of the student union building next month, if we want to do a smaller event. If we choose to do something bigger, we'll have to figure out location and timing and all of that.”

This guy. Holy shit, this guy. He's beautiful, tall, shoulders like a swimmer, a golden halo of hair. Grantaire would probably want to draw him if he just saw him out on the street somewhere. But his voice rings out across the room, cutting through the coffee shop sounds from downstairs, filling the space the way Grantaire can remember priests' voices filling the churches he'd sleep in when he couldn't find anywhere else. The way a voice full of belief soars like a song, and he knows that Bahorel said Enjolras was the leader, but this only confirms it. It's clear that he believes so strongly in his goals, in the betterment of the world, and his eyes are fiercely alight with it. But even as his voice rings out, the words fall flat at Grantaire's feet. Enjolras seems to have more hope than any of them, more belief in the success of their fight, but it's all just words. Just words that fly up into the air looking and sounding beautiful, but Grantaire knows from experience that words don't give out meals or money or jobs or medicine or anything else that's really, truly important, that will actually pull people out of despair.

Enjolras stands before them, soldier of hope, champion of the cause, orator for progress, with Combeferre by his side, but Grantaire can't see their campaign going anywhere useful. What good does a protest do without follow-through? What good are words from a powerful voice without generous actions? What good is oration without stepping down off the podium to talk to the audience and to find out what the people _need_? Enjolras' voice sounds older and more powerful than he looks, but it's obvious that he's lacking experience, lacking hardship, lacking the things that make him think on the right track and Grantaire wants to roll his eyes almost as much as he wants to stare at this angelic creature and never look away.

“Of course,” Combeferre is clarifying gravely, “Our goal in all this is to not only raise awareness, but to make a change.”

“Friends,” Enjolras' voice rings out again as he straightens up, shoulders squared and eyes alight, “Last year our events were successful, but if we want to really make an impact we need more bodies, and more _minds_ than we had before. It's important to have our presence felt, and our ideas broadcast, so that those people on the fence, those people looking at us out their windows wondering what side they're on, feel compelled to make a decision and join us. It's important that we gather more bodies, more signatures, more voices, because the more people we have beside us, the more force we have behind our progress.”

Grantaire must make a noise, because Jehan looks at him questioningly. He shrugs by way of explanation and nods toward the leader.

“Sorry, does he know progress isn't just, like, walking around holding a sign?”

Apparently he said that louder than he thought, because Enjolras' blue eyes pierce him; he can see them looking him over, calculating. One golden eyebrow arches. “Sorry? Who are you?”

And it's weird having opinions while sober, because before he would have just shrugged and turned back to his glass, but now he actually has shit to say and there's no filter, nothing to distract or keep him from saying it. There's a part of him that figures he has nothing to lose, an impulsive ' _why not?_ ' whispering in his ear, so he looks at Enjolras, at the rest of the group, and opens his mouth.

“Hi, uh, okay. So, uh, my name's Grantaire, and I know I'm the new guy, and really, really, I'm not here to be one of those asshole white boy devil's advocates or like a Godwin's law troll or whatever, but I'm just wondering, like, how much the protests you plan out _do_ in the long run?”

“What do you mean, what do they _do_?” Enjolras folds his arms, a flush forming high on his cheeks. Grantaire hates that he thinks the man is beautiful. It's a little distracting when what he wants to do is argue, make this guy who seems to have so much belief really fucking _demonstrate_ it. He's telling the truth; he doesn't want to play devil's advocate just for the hell of it. It's just that he can see so much hope and potential and power shining in Enjolras, in all of these bright-eyed students, but they're not doing it right. It's not going anywhere helpful.

“I remember a couple of protests from last year, on and off campus, and I assume you were part of them. Maybe you were the ones who put them on. But I dunno, they didn't seem like they helped. People went, sure, but they all just went back to their own lives after that. How much more of a turnout did you have after each protest?” He gestures at the smallish group around him. “Clearly not _that_ much.”

“We had quite an increase in numbers last year. They dropped due to the new school year.” Enjolras waves the past year away with a dismissive hand, tossing the lack of numbers over his shoulder carelessly. “Anyway, that's not what's important. The _important_ part is the fact that we're doing anything at all. Protests are part of activism, they're integral to get the word out about important causes that need citizen and governmental awareness.”

“Sure, but—”

“If protests didn't happen, half the rights we take for granted now wouldn't exist. We need protests to get movements started, you know. To get laws put in place, to give people rights. The participation of people is crucial, and that's what we want to do. We want to pave the way. We want to get out there and _teach_ people, _show_ people the injustices in the world, so that we can all work together to _do_ something about it.”

Grantaire's not sure if Enjolras is deliberately misunderstanding him, or if he really doesn't realize that going out into the street isn't all there is to things like this. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and instead slings one arm over the back of his chair. His voice isn't nearly as powerful or captivating as Enjolras', but he has fucking opinions and he knows he can ramble until someone shuts him up.

“No, see, I get that protests are important. Yeah, they're good to raise awareness in the community, especially when it comes to people with privilege. Sure. But your protests or events or what the fuck ever last year were mostly about rent control, and racist cops, and I think I remember one about supporting planned parenthood or pro-choice or something? And this year you want to do some sort of event about the school-to-prison pipeline. Sure, that's all well and good, I guess. But Courfeyrac told me like a good bunch of you are pre-law. And Joly's pre-med, and I dunno what the rest of you are but you're all privileged college students. You could be using your knowledge to help people.” He flings his hands in the air, a little exasperated that he even has to point this out. “I dunno, volunteer at some program or some shit. Gather donations. Use your fuckin' noggins, you know? All those big brains you're developing here at this institution.”

“So protesting isn't good enough for you?” Enjolras' eyes blaze angrily, boring into him, but Grantaire is just as frustrated. “You don't think we should call attention to important issues?”

“No, it's not. Don't just yell at the sky or the buildings you march past or random CEOs who won't listen. Sure, privileged people have gotta know about what's going on under their noses, but the people actually dealing with all that shit need help, too. You can't put on protests and then somehow continue on without helping the underprivileged like you believe in the bootstraps theory or some shit.”

Enjolras' cheeks are flushed red. It's beautiful and terrifying and if Grantaire wasn't so fucking annoyed, he'd probably think he was gorgeous. “It's not— we don't— The bootstrap theory is garbage and we all know it. Most of us are students, so we're using our time and knowledge and skills to the best of our abilities. Protesting is something we can do easily. It doesn't require a specific number of people to plan so members can come and go as they please. It allows people to be active in their community, to speak out. They can come lend their voices, or give us their words so we can amplify them.”

“Okay, but right now, as far as I can tell, you do what? Sit around theorizing and arguing with other college students, and then you go to protests with a turnout that's mostly students? How are you going to get anything done?”

“At least we do something? Did we see _you_ at last year's protests? I highly doubt it.” Enjolras gestures out into the room, suddenly including everyone in this argument. “Protesting is something we can do to raise awareness, to drum up new faces. Putting on events is something we can do. It gets the word out there.”

Grantaire scoffs. “Isn't that what the club fair is for?”

“We can't form an official club through the school because we're willing to push back against cops, we're willing to get violent and use our bodies to hammer our points home. But at least we're making people see. And people who see what's going on will start to care, and people who _care_ will try and do _something_ to the best of their ability. That's what we're trying to do here. It's a bit hypocritical of you to sit there in the back and tell us we're not getting shit done when you're clearly not doing anything at all.”

Grantaire acquiesces to that one, nodding. Enjolras is right about him doing nothing, but he's not right about the groups actions being the best ones. “Sure, probably, but I'm willing to admit it. And I have a shitty job at a shitty grocery store to get to when I'm not in class, anyway. So, that's a time suck right there.” He shrugs, swallowing against the itch in his throat and the strange feeling pooling in his chest. “And there's some other things, too, but you all don't get to know that. Anyway, protests are quite a lovely performance of caring, but not much else. They don't actually solve problems.”

“Holy shit, a real live debate!” Bahorel stage-whispers to the redhead whose name Grantaire never caught. Enjolras shoots an unimpressed look in his direction, then turns the same exasperated expression on Grantaire.

“Without protests, segregation would still be a thing. Women wouldn't have the right to vote. The ADA wouldn't exist. Protest is crucial to help oppressed people gain the rights they deserve.”

If Grantaire could roll his eyes as hard as he wants to, they'd fall right out of his head and roll out the door.

“I'm not arguing with you about whether or not people deserve to have rights. They do. Of course they fucking do. But protest only works if it's fucking massive. Fuck, petitioning might work better than a tiny student protest, and petitioning never works. Volunteering is far better than protest. Or phone-spamming senators. Going to public hearings at fucking city hall or whatever. Look, protest hasn't worked since the fucking 90s and you know it. Those protests against the war in Iraq? Occupy Wall Street? The climate march? The DAPL? The May Day protests? Hell, even Black Lives Matter. Sure, they all got televised, got their fifteen minutes of fame or whatever. But no huge changes came from them. People got aware. Whoopee. So what? The war still happened. Occupy fuckers got up and went home after they got bored with their tents. The climate is still quite literally going to hell. The pipe still got built. Worker's rights haven't changed in ages. And black people are still getting killed every day while cops skip through the city like trigger-happy little kids who are high on sugar. Even though those protests got televised so people could _see_. But _seeing_ doesn't solve the problem. Protests aren't the only thing that made those changes you cited so eagerly. You can't point at a problem and go 'Hey, look, this is a problem!' and then walk away expecting it to magically get fixed. It's like fixing any other fucking thing in this world, abstract social concept or inanimate object. You figure out what's causing the problem, then you do what you can with your knowledge and skills, then you call someone else if you can't figure it out. You're jumping straight to the 'somebody help me' step.”

“I can see your point, but I still disagree with your opinion on protesting.” Enjolras straightens up, his voice almost trembling with sincerity as it fills the room. “It can change everything. What about Paris, May 1968? The entire city ground to a halt and it all started with student protests at the Sorbonne. It's an example of the power of the body of citizens. With enough people, we can bring the state to its knees!”

“You could, I suppose, if you had enough people and there was enough unrest. But in Europe the unions have more power and have protections when it comes to protesting. We could never do that here, because Americans are fucking terrified of losing their jobs if they miss even a day or half a day to go protest. Or if they go on their weekend and their employer somehow finds out they were there. There are no protections here. People don't want to protest because they could lose their jobs, and then they wouldn't be able to afford rent, or healthcare, or whatever, and they'd end up on the streets. And fucking everyone's afraid of that. So people sit in their comfort. Because people here are comfortable. They're too fucking mired in comfort and ignorance and media and work to realize how shit things are and to rise up. See, the difference is that in Paris in '68, there was already unrest due to the Gaullist party. But that revolution failed, too. The difference is that during the Arab Spring people were fucking miserable and they knew it. The difference is that here people are fucking miserable but they don't know it. And if they do, they're too afraid to do anything about it, so they just hide in their distractions. They might want to do things, they might really care a lot, or care too much, who fucking knows, but they're also terrified of what they might have to sacrifice and never get back, because they have no protections, no fallback, and there's no guarantee of success or anyone having their back. I'm not just like, calling out random strangers or accusing anybody of shit while sitting on my high horse. I'm the same way. I care, I care a fucking lot, but there's no way in hell I'm risking my ass out there. I'm all for rebelling, I just seriously doubt any of it is really going to work. Protests fizzle and die and nothing gets done, nothing happens. Or they fizzle and die and people die too and still nothing happens. Even if everyone out there cares _so much_ , even if the people watching tv care. The people who have the power to do something about it don't give a shit. I can guarantee there are plenty of people in this room who care a whole fucking lot but they're scared shitless of going out there and doing _something_ because if it fails, they're fucked.”

He could get addicted to this. The arguing, the talking, the feeling of flexing his brain, actually using all the random trivia and absurd knowledge he's gained from all the days in the library and all the late nights surfing wikipedia to keep his brain from spiralling. He could get addicted to the feeling of his mouth forming more than just the words “Spare any change” or “Can I get a pack of Marlboro Reds and a Mellow Corn” or some shit like that. He could get addicted to the way Enjolras looks, standing before him with a righteous glow like he's powered by hope and some sort of otherworldly, angelic belief in humankind. Even the glare that Enjolras has turned on him is beautiful and oddly inspiring.

“Look, if you don't agree with us, if you don't believe in anything, you're free to leave.”

The glare that was blazing passionately a moment ago has turned to cold fire. But Grantaire shrugs, like he always does in the face of anything these days. Anyway, he feels fucking great, riding the wave of whatever this feeling is of being a real _person_ , right _here_ , right _now_.

“No, no, I agree with you. I just don't think it's ever going to happen. I'll stay. I want to see how it goes. It really would be nice if you succeeded. And honestly, if I was going to be lead or inspired by anything other than a whim or an itch, it might as well be you.”

Enjolras stares at him, eyes narrowed in annoyance, his lovely red lips curved in a slight sneer. He shakes his head with a scoff, waving a dismissive hand in Grantaire's direction.

“I don't know what the fuck that means, but we're moving on now.” With that, he turns away and gestures for Combeferre to speak.

Almost instantly, that ballooning feeling in his chest, the feeling of being alive and noticed and _doing something_ , slides down into a shrivelled nothingness and he's left a little embarrassed and a lot annoyed, a little curious and a lot sad. He doesn't put his head down on the table like he wants to; that would be like admitting defeat. And anyway, the urge to put his head down is being overridden by the urge to stand up and keep yelling, because that felt _good_. Instead, he stares at Enjolras, who's gaze remains firmly on Combeferre's presentation of plans. Grantaire's fingers itch for a sketch pad, just to draw the line of Enjolras' jaw, the way his hair curls around his ears. The utterly sincere fire in his eyes.

He listens to the rest of the meeting with half an ear, frustrated, only partially examining the feeling in his chest. How moments ago he felt more alive, more real, more focused, _happier_ with Enjolras' eyes on him and a debate on his lips than he'd felt in years. His fingers tap out a nervous rhythm; he picks up his coffee stirrer and uses it to drip the dregs of his cup onto his napkin until the whole thing is soaked. He still wishes he had a sketch pad with him.

When the meeting finally breaks, Jehan nudges him amid the din of scraping chairs and chattering students. “That was cool.”

“Really?” Grantaire arches an eyebrow, shoving his soaked napkin into the bottom of his paper cup. “I pissed off your _club prez_. It was fun for me, but he looks like he wants to behead me.”

“You couldn't see you,” Jehan smiles, just a little. “You looked like a completely different person. And besides, a little constructive criticism can sometimes go a long way."

He eyes Enjolras as they move toward the door to head back to campus. “I dunno if 'constructive' is what he's going to get out of any of that. Shit. You wanted to introduce me to all your friends and I probably ruined it.”

“Hmm. I don't think so. You should come back next week. Seriously. Grantaire, you're my friend, I want you to be their friend, too. I know Bahorel likes you already. Maybe it'll take a second, but Enjolras will get over not having everyone agree with him all the time.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Listen, this is for you,” he drops a bracelet made of green and yellow braided hemp and clear glass beads into Grantaire's hand. “I made it the other night. I have to go pick up some posters from the printing office, but I'll see you in class tomorrow!”

“Thank you,” is all Grantaire manages to breathe, surprised at the gift.

Aside from hanging out Eponine in high school, he's never really had a proper friend before. He watches Jehan's long brown hair swish back and forth against his shoulders as he walks away, then stares at the bracelet in his palm as he walks back to his dorm room. He has work early in the morning tomorrow and he sure as hell isn't going to fall asleep at any reasonable hour; he'll probably spend the next three years thinking about that argument, and Enjolras, and how pretty he is, and how stupidly hopeful, and all the ways Enjolras was wrong, and all the ways he'd fucked up what could have been a perfectly nice group of friends if it hadn't been for his big fucking mouth.  
  


* * *

  
In the morning, he's so mixed up inside he barely makes it to work on time. Part of him wants to bask in the realization that Jehan thinks of him as a friend, in the warm that washes over him at every glimpse of the bracelet on his wrist. Then his brain dumps ice water on him every time, reminding him of the friends he could have had if he hadn't been such an idiot with this whole no brain-to-mouth filter during sobriety thing. By the time he gets to art history his stomach feels like a washing machine, all confused and cold.

But Jehan's smile is so bright when he sees the bracelet on Grantaire's wrist, so maybe he should go back.

But they all must hate him for talking back, for being a devil's advocate and being so quick to argue with their leader.

But talking like that felt so _good_. Not the being an asshole part, but trying to make a point, and knowing what he was talking about, and using his brain for something other than drowning.

But they're never going to like him, not after that, and not if he keeps doing that, because if he goes back he's going to want to keep arguing, to make Enjolras prove his points and walk his talk.

Shit, and they're all so fucking hopeful, something he's not sure he'll ever be. But it's nice, it's comforting, it's strange and unfamiliar and amazing to watch.

He spends the next week thinking about it. He almost calls Charlotte, _almost_ , but something inside him says not to. This has to be his decision, without her advice, because in the end it's up to him whether he tries to make friends or gives up in the end. But he wants to be around these people, and their optimism and their enthusiasm and their hope that he hasn't felt in years. He wants friends who _care_ , because he's swung in so many circles from caring too much to not caring at all to caring but not believing, it'll be nice to have something solid again. Maybe their good moods will rub off on him. He doesn't think he'll stop doubting, but maybe he'll have a good time, at least. And thinking about Enjolras, and how he just seems to hold the room so easily and believes so _easily_ and fervently, makes him realize how much he just wants to watch it all the time. Because if anyone could make him believe in causes without backing up his words with actions, it's Enjolras. And if anyone can make him believe in causes he knows will fail, it's Enjolras.

So he waffles back and forth between slouching into the cafe on Thursday and hiding in the back or standing his ground. He's not ashamed of arguing with Enjolras, and he's not put off by their debate; he just wishes he'd waited until he'd gotten to know the rest of the group before he took on the leader in front of everyone.

But, fuck it, if this is what gets him out of his bedroom, he's going to embrace it. If he can somehow convince these cool guys to be friends with him, he's going to take the chance and go for it.

In the end, he walks back to the cafe on Thursday afternoon, and finds himself in line for coffee directly behind Courfeyrac. He taps the man on the back just to watch that manically friendly smile bloom as he turns around.

“You came back!” Courfeyrac looks genuinely gobsmacked.

Grantaire shrugs. “Said I would, didn't I?”

“Huh,” he grins and pats Grantaire on the back. “Well, I owe Bossuet twenty bucks.”

“You bet against me?”

Courfeyrac leans over the counter to give his order, then turns back to Grantaire with an apologetic tilt of his head. “Sorry. Most people who argue with Enjolras don't come back. He's kind of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Eh, true.” Grantaire will give him that. But he's not below sucking up to this group. Not when there's apparently potential that at least Courfeyrac can convince them to like him. “But most of you are cool. And anyway, I like Enjolras, he seems like he cares a whole lot. But maybe he needs a little friendly dissent.”

“You're the first person I haven't seen leaving morally eviscerated after a round with him, so I wish you luck.”

“I'm already morally questionable, so it stands to reason I can't be knocked down by a little arguing.” Grantaire gives the barista his order and watches Courfeyrac yank about fifty napkins out of the dispenser. “Besides, even if Enjolras thinks I'm a nuisance, I think it's fun.”

“Combeferre thinks it's good for him.” Courfeyrac dumps sugar in his drink and stirs it vigorously, nearly sloshing it over the sides. “Someone to keep him on his toes.”

“Is that an official invitation to return?”

“It is from me, at least.” Grantaire thanks the barista who hands him his drink. “Let's go upstairs, c'mon.”

But nerves win out over confidence once he's back in the upstairs room, and he finds that he's tucked himself away in a corner. Jehan smiles when he sees him and waves but doesn't come over, and when Enjolras glances over at him, Grantaire is a little scared he might get yelled at. But Enjolras looks away and even though that paranoid part of him relaxes, he wishes his gaze had stayed.

Some of the others give him a smile and a wave as they filter in. Other students that Grantaire doesn't recognize from last week wander in as well, sitting in the back and chatting to each other for a while before being pulled into whatever it is that Joly and Bahorel are discussing. The general cacophony in the room gets louder as more people show up, and Grantaire lets it wash over him, lets the unfocused noise lull him into calm. But the noise dies down as Enjolras and Combeferre take their places against that front table again.

Grantaire's gaze is inexorably pulled to the blonde hair and blue eyes and frustratingly optimistic gaze that's stupidly backlit by the window behind him. Again, he wishes he'd brought a damn sketchbook or something.

“So, friends, this month we're going to try something new. I spoke briefly to a local librarian about programs our city offers. We're going to try and see if we can work with a local program to offer tutoring for grade school students at the library. Maybe we'll branch out to older students as well, but we're going to keep it basic for now. We want to reach out to those in need, and as students ourselves this is the easiest way to do that.” Enjolras' jaw is set firmly, his eyes blazing and defiant as he speaks, and he doesn't look at Grantaire or even in the direction of his table. “Combeferre also suggested getting in touch with the AAPF to see if anyone can offer their skills, so I or someone who wants more responsibility can email their coordinator and see what sort of assistance they're in need of.”

Enjolras looks like a righteous angel, all hope-filled words and straight-backed beauty, and it's hard for Grantaire to look away. But he tears his eyes from the sight and looks out at the others scattered across the room. Courfeyrac and Jehan, with their legs slung over each other. Bossuet and Joly, shoulder to shoulder at a table, sharing a massive mug of hot chocolate. Feuilly, slumped tiredly in a chair. Bahorel sitting on top of a table behind him with a gripper in hand, mouthing silently as he counts reps to himself.

Bahorel catches him staring, but before Grantaire can look away, Bahorel is grinning over at him, throwing a double thumbs up his way, clearly happy to see him there. It's just an honest and friendly gesture, with not an ounce of mockery behind it. Grantaire finds himself smiling even as he ducks his head and looks back towards the front of the room.

And there's Enjolras, speaking, glowing, tall and beautiful and strong-willed. And beside him, Combeferre, who catches his eye and nods, a small smile on his lips, and despite the cold that came over him when Enjolras' eyes turned away and didn't turn back, Grantaire feels something warm start to grow against the inside of his ribs, tucking itself in the spaces where ice and snow so often sit and numbness makes its home. He flexes his fingers, itching to draw, and feels like he's thawing.

**Author's Note:**

> [This](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ec/75/08/ec750817fe550bf15866dd7dc570a44c.jpg) is the jacket Courfeyrac was wearing in this fic.
> 
> So I may change the narrative 'voice' in this series just a little bit. It's been like 5 years since I started it, and I've become a better writer (I hope) and I want to be able to do a little more with it in terms of descriptions and narrative style and stuff. So if future chapters sound a little different, that's why.


End file.
